


A Silent Imputation of Parsimony

by Guu



Series: Paper Windows [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-19 23:05:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1487443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guu/pseuds/Guu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas comes home after a long day of moving boxes and Dean is sitting on the side of their bed, morosely staring at their line phone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Silent Imputation of Parsimony

Some days it's harder to pretend like this is anything like the life they always wanted. Or not wanted. Cas hasn't been human long enough to know the difference.

These days feel like the air does before a storm; everything is pregnant with the promise of rain, of thunder. Of despair.

Cas comes home after a long day of moving boxes and Dean is sitting on the side of their bed, morosely staring at their line phone. There's an ashtray by his side and a cigarette in his hand, and Castiel frowns at the sight of it as he takes off his shoes and jacket. He's hungry and it's been a tough day and he wishes Dean would be making dinner instead of sulking pathetically in their little bedroom with the growing stains on the walls and ceiling.

"The phone won't dial itself," he snaps, throwing his vest over the chair in the corner. He knows what fantasies Dean is torturing himself with, and perhaps, in another time, he would have been a bit more tactful, a bit more understanding. But today? Today Castiel's back hurts. There's a blister on his right foot and a hole in his stomach, and he has not the patience nor the generosity to spare Dean.

"I'm hungry," he says, and Dean turns like he just noticed Cas is in the room.

"We have a kitchen," Dean answers, making a vague hand gesture in the kitchen's direction. He takes a drag of the cigarette and then adds: "You can cook."

Cas doesn't want to resent Dean, but on days like this it's hard to remember that he loves him. Yes, Dean lost a lot of things, but so did Cas. And he's _trying_. He really is.

"My back hurts," he insists.

"Too fucking bad, Cas."

That spurs Castiel into action. He stomps into Dean's personal space, snatching the cigarette from his hand. Dean glares at him but doesn't move from his spot, doesn't defend himself from Castiel's seething fury.

"Don't forget you did this to yourself," Castiel snaps, crushing the little stick with his fingers, burning himself on the lit end. He doesn't know if he's hoping for Dean to be angry or to be hurt, but neither happens. Dean just hold his end, looking at him steadily through smoke-stained lashes, and has the gall to laugh, ugly and loud.

Here's the thing that plagues Castiel's nightmares: not death, nor aging, nor aching bones. It's Dean's belief that this life of theirs is some temporary commodity that they got. That it's a punishment, or a prison, or something they _deserve_. Not a life that they are building, irregular and shabby as it may be. To Castiel, this is _everything_. To Dean, this is _everything they lost_. And his existence is shaped around the one absence that they never talk about, and Castiel isn't sure he can continue pretending like he doesn't come home every once in a while, after a three day Dean-brand sulking, wondering if Dean will be gone.

The irony of it is such that he wants to laugh, or maybe cry, and Dean is giving him that half-assed grin like he _knows_ , and it's all Castiel can do not to punch his face. Or kiss him. _He_ doesn't know.

He composes himself and goes to grab a coat.

"Where are you going," Castiel hears Dean say. It's not even phrased as a question, and Castiel knows Dean dreads the solitude as much as he does, or maybe more. He slams the door without answering and takes the stairs two at a time, longs to be out with haste.

\---

There's a good Mexican food place not far away, and halfway through the take away queue, Castiel realizes he's wearing Dean's coat. It's warm and it smells familiar, but isn't as soft as Cas' own. There's money in its pockets and Castiel buys the most expensive burritos out of spite. Ten dollars and eighty seven cents. He thinks about walking around for a bit, maybe even spending the night somewhere else, but he can't bear the thought of Dean alone in the apartment, berating himself and wallowing in his self-pity and self-hate. He wishes, not for the first time, that Sam would just call. Cas knows Dean won't make the move: he agreed to Sam's terms of his own volition, and one of them was the request for space. Dean's been honouring that promise for the best part of four years, but Castiel has seen it slowly eat him away from the inside.

Holding the last bit of a massive burrito, he sighs.

If only.

\---

Dean is in the kitchen when Castiel comes back. There's an array of pots over their old stove, the sweet smell of something cooking, mixed with spice and sweat and something more. Dean stands, sheepish, in the middle of them. Castiel's stomach turns: he has eaten too much.

"You left your wallet here," Dean says, his voice small, shoulders shrinking into himself, "I thought you might want to eat something when you returned." He glances briefly at Castiel, barely catches him nod. Cas recognices an apology when he sees one.

"Okay," he says. His hands tighten around the bag with he extra burrito he brought for Dean, but before he can think twice about it he pretends the trash needs to be taken out and rushes into the service room of their floor, punches everything down the garbage chute, lets it go.

Later that night, Castiel will be sick and Dean's open palm will rest on his clammy skin as Cas holds on to the toilet bowl. The burrito bag in the garbage chute will rot and a neighbour will complain: a notice will be pinned to the elevator mirror, but neither Dean nor Castiel will see it.

For now, they eat in a silence that feels like the stillness of the city after a winter storm. The atmosphere is earthy, light, a promise fulfilled. It smells of cilantro and mothballs, but it also smells of home.

At least this, Castiel knows.

**Author's Note:**

> A big thanks to outpastthtemoat, tsadde and MajorEnglishEsquire for their input, spell checking and encouragement ♥
> 
> This piece was inspired by the short story The Gift of the Magi, which I read as a child. It was what spurred the atmosphere of this whole verse, so I'm happy to have come up with a piece that evoques the themes and bitter-sweet quality of it. The title belongs to a passage from it as well.


End file.
